easy to fall, easy to break
by fabricated fantasies
Summary: "You are perfect," he tells her, and that is the first lie. -— RoseLysander


**a/n** for Roma; merry (very belated) christmas. i love you, hon, don't ever change.

my first roselysander.

* * *

They're both a little drunk when he kisses her the first time, a random outburst of passion that seems like a good idea to both of them, and she doesn't want to think about the possibility that their kiss means nothing. The fairy lights sparkle above them in the canopy, and she knows it isn't right for them to do this now, though she can't bring herself to stop his hands trailing across the bare skin exposed by her dress. The whole purpose of wearing said dress is to attract his attention, and she hopes this flare of interest won't fade once they're completely sober.

He deepens the kiss, and she doesn't complain at all, lost in the sensation of kiss lips and hands touching everything he can reach. She wonders, for a moment, if they're progressing too quickly for a non-relationship that might not mean anything, but the stolen champagne fizzing through her veins tells her otherwise.

"I should stop," he murmurs, pulling away from her abruptly. "You're supposed to be mingling with the guests – Victoire will murder me if I distract her bridesmaid from her duties."

"Do you _want_ to stop?" she asks, because she doesn't the kissing to end, even if she's a whole year younger than him and she doesn't even know if he even likes her.

"Not really," he admits, and she can't stop the smile that lights up her face as he kisses her again, slow and sweet and completely different from their first.

Later, they dance together on the beach, the freezing water curling around their toes and making them shiver, though that might also be due to the fact that it's well past midnight when they leave the reception and her dress doesn't exactly cover much. They part ways with another charged kiss and the hint of a promise, and she starts to believe that this might be the beginning of their fairytale.

* * *

"Kiss me," she says, her hands fumbling with the tie looped loosely around his neck, which is completely against school conduct or uniform or whatever, but she really doesn't care about any of that right now. His hand slips under the front of her shirt as he responds to her demand, methodically undoing every button with practised ease.

"Are you okay?" he asks her, though he doesn't wait for her to answer before dipping his head to press his lips to her sensitive skin, trailing kisses over her collarbone and making his way back to her lips with a competency that surprises her.

"Have you done this before?" she questions breathlessly, getting that heady feeling that always coincides with his kisses, but a part of her pushes through the haze and wonders why she's never asked him this question before. It seems kind of important now, though it never has before.

"Yeah," he grunts against her skin, pausing after a moment to look up and lock eyes with her in a way that makes her shiver. "Does it matter?" he asks, and she knows he cares about her and would stop the moment she asked him to, but she doesn't want to dash his hopes, and besides, she loves him. They are supposed to do this, she knows that, and sets aside her doubts.

"Of course not," she responds, and pushes her shirt the rest of the way off.

* * *

They dance together in the summer, a flower in her hair and his arm curled around her waist as their toes tread patterns in the pebbled sand. She's seventeen, all tangled blonde curls and freckled skin and romantic daydreams, and he's dangerous and arrogant and a serial heart-breaker, everything her mother warned her to stay away from, but she convinces herself that they are perfect together.

"I love you," he whispers with eyes full of promises she hopes he'll keep, and she says it back without hesitation. She's seventeen and impressionable and completely in love with him, and it doesn't seem to matter that it's been six months since he kissed her at a wedding.

He kisses her softly, and she responds eagerly, standing on tiptoe to wind her arms around his neck. She's been waiting for this moment since she first realised she loved him, and maybe she's a little too hopeful and romantic and confident that she will have her happily ever after.

"You are perfect," he tells her tenderly, and that is the first lie.

* * *

She exits the fireplace with a slight smile on her face and the remnants of Floo powder still lingering on her hands, her rampant blonde curls tied back tightly. She turns to place her wand on a nearby table, and changes her life from that moment on.

Afterwards, she wonders how her fairytale would have gone had she not arrived home early that particular afternoon, or if she hadn't bothered to put down her wand before heading to the shower. Sometimes, in fits of pique, she wonders what her life would be like if Lysander hadn't met a pretty redhead at work who had far more time for Lysander's needs than Rose herself did.

"What in Merlin's name is going on here?" she asks in a shriek, her tone a decibel higher than usual, its shrillness causing her blonde boyfriend to jump and attempt push away the woman currently absorbed in undoing his shirt.

"I'm going," the redhead announces, and Rose can't help but notice Lysander's look of disappointment and fear that passes over his face as he turns towards her.

"Who is she?" she asks fervently, casting a sidelong glance at the woman's disappearing back, and she has a sneaking suspicion that the blue shirt she's wearing is the one Rose had bought for Lysander the previous week.

"She's nobody, promise," he assures her, reaching out both arms to pull her into an embrace, though she remains stiff and unresponsive.

"A nobody that you were just snogging _in our living room_," she says tersely, finding it hard to speak because this doesn't happen to the perfect couple in fairytales, and she has never prepared herself for any other eventuality but a happily ever after.

"It was a mistake, Rose. I'm sorry. It won't happen again, I promise," he apologises, repeating the words when she doesn't respond, caught up in wondering how her life has come to this: conversing with her cheating boyfriend and close friend from her childhood days about someone who has pulled at the strings of Rose's life without caring about the consequences.

They are silent for a long time after this, standing on opposite sides of the room with her blistering gaze trained on his face, though she starts to realise that maybe the distance between them is far greater than the stretch to the other side of their living room.

"How do I know you won't do this again? I don't," she pauses and takes a breath, "want to be married to you the next time you _make a mistake_. I can't handle that," she finishes, and hates herself for sounding weak and childish and far too dependent on his actions for her happiness.

"I love you," he says, and she believes him because she has to; because she doesn't want to face the truth she suspects is underneath his pretty lies. "You know I love you," he adds, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips which quickly escalates into something more that makes her forget the woman in the corridor.

* * *

She is twenty-two and jaded and lost, all sleek blonde tresses and freckled skin and pushing aside the fantasies she can't bring herself to believe in. He is the same as ever, courageous and charming and breaking hearts, including hers.

She doesn't trust him anymore, and she hates herself for not being able to let go of the past. She finds herself searching through his things to uncover any evidence to support the fact that he's cheating again, and she doesn't even know what she's looking for or what she would do if she ended up discovering something. Some days, she _wants_ to find something, anything to justify to herself that the last time wasn't just a dream or a nightmare or someone else's memories; other days, she hopes fervently that he has kept his promise.

"You lied to me," she says, placing a hand on the side of the doorframe to hold her up in case she falls down. She doesn't trust herself to go anywhere near the couple currently lying in the bed. It's a different girl, she notices briefly, but her gaze is fixed on the blonde-haired boy clutching the pale blue sheets surrounding the pair.

"Rose," he starts and then falls silent, seemingly unable to continue under the pressure of her intense gaze. She doesn't know where she went wrong with her happily ever after – where is the boy who kissed her at a wedding and swore he loved her?

"I'm sorry, I just, I-I'm sorry," the girl babbles, sliding quickly out of the bed, and Rose stares at her until she runs out of the room, clutching her shirt in front of her chest.

"Why?" she asks simply, stepping away from the doorframe and into the room, which seems smaller than it did a moment ago. "Don't tell me that it was another mistake."

"I'm sorry, Rose. I love you," he promises, and she knows it's a lie, because another girl's lipstick brands his skin and he's stopped trying to mask the guilt in his eyes.

"Don't," she stops him with a single word, harsh, commanding and definite, because that is all she can bring herself to say. She shakes off his hand when he reaches out to her and walks towards the stairs without looking back; the hedge of thorns that has sprung up around her heart is precarious and might fail her at any moment. The world seems dream-like and not like her life at all, and the bands of iron locking her emotions away are all that keep her from breaking down on the spot.

"I love you," she hears him plead hoarsely from behind her, but this time she doesn't believe him.

* * *

**a/n2 **reading this over, this is the - well, not the most rubbish, but still pretty high up there. i intend to go back and fix it when i have the time/inspiration, but this had a due date and i had a breakdown - this was the fic that resulted.

please, please tell me what you liked/hated, so i know what worked and what didn't for the improved version.


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